When working at a “regular job,” I was a type-A workaholic control freak. I used to journal my every move in my Circa planner, had a to-do list or chart for everything, and created multi-tab spreadsheets for big projects. I had a corresponding email folder for every My Documents folder, which also mirrored my hard-copy files. I used my P-Touch Labeler on a daily basis, and everything had to be in its place. I seriously think I was borderline OCD.

As a stay-at-home-mom, I’m scatterbrained, messy, and sometimes employ a “let the inmates run the asylum” approach to parenting. Right now, at 7.30am on Saturday, my kids are eating cookies and watching their 3rd hour of Disney Junior. In the past few months, I’ve lost my wallet, phone, and keys — the 3 basic things one needs to leave the house and get home without crisis and calamity.

My wallet was stolen at H’s school, and I only knew it was stolen and not in the depths of my car because Bank of America noticed “unusual activity” and called me. Big banks may be evil, but they treat you right when it comes to fraud. I didn’t even know one could spend over $300 at Walgreens.

I left my iPhone on the steps of my house overnight after doing some yardwork. I would have found it sooner if the “Find my iPhone” app was a little more specific. My husband saved the day.

I found my keys yesterday after 2 weeks of using the spare house and car keys. They were in the boys’ dresser. Duh.

I’m using a different part of my brain now — not the uber-organized, linear-thinking, logical part. It’s the emotional, reactive-not-proactive, nurturing, intuitive part. If I ever get my whole brain functioning, who knows what I could accomplish!

Three things that remind me of high school. I just received a Facebook invite to my 20-year high school reunion. I am 99.9% positive I will not be going. Here’s why:

I grew up in central Jersey. No, I don’t know what exit. I fled the state as soon as I turned 18 for what I call “irreconcilable cultural differences” that still exist.

The reunion isn’t just in Jersey — it’s down the shore (note that I use the proper local terminology “down the shore”), at Point Pleasant, on the boardwalk, at Jenkinson’s amusement park. It doesn’t get much more Jersey than that. I’m scared.

I have social anxiety when going to dinner with people I know and love. I’d need ativan or valium or some such thing to just get through this.

Do I really want to party with people I haven’t seen for 20 years? People who I wasn’t even friends with in high school? People who contributed to my deeply depressed and disturbed state of mind throughout my formative years? Um… not so much.

Does anyone really enjoy going to these things?

Social media has enabled me to find people I wish I’d kept in touch with. I don’t need to drive 6 hours to Jersey over a weekend in June to find them. If I wanted to find the rest of them, I would have already.

I’m not the only one who feels this way — so does this guy. That said, there remains a 0.1% chance I could change my mind. If you have any words of persuasion, pearls of wisdom, or experiences from your own high school reunions, please share!

And no, I never had big hair. I tried, but I’m Asian. Yes, I was in my high school marching band — we were state champs. And yes, I did, and still do, love Bon Jovi.

stunning, somber, strangely romantic. if i was a ghost, this would be a neat place to live.

Ruins are the visible symbols and landmarks of our societies and their changes, small pieces of history in suspension.

The state of ruin is essentially a temporary situation that happens at some point, the volatile result of change of era and the fall of empires. This fragility, the time elapsed but even so running fast, lead us to watch them one very last time : being dismayed, or admire, making us wondering about the permanence of things.

Photography appeared to us as a modest way to keep a little bit of this ephemeral state.

Like this:

Having lived through the sad, lonely cycle of eating disorders, distorted body image, and low self esteem, I am hyper-sensitive to the pressure our media puts on new mothers to “lose the baby weight” and get their bodies back to “normal.” The Academy Awards, and the accompanying red carpet cattiness, elevates this superficiality to a truly obnoxious level. Those voted best dressed— Gwyneth, J.Lo, Michelle Williams, et al —by the ubiquitous fashion police have gorgeous figures, no doubt, but they do not represent what the rest of us should deem normal. I’m not the first to say that we need more realistic representations of women’s bodies featured in the media. I loved seeing Maya Rudolph’s voluptuous curves, a stark contrast to Angelina Jolie’s bony limb(s). Here’s a refreshing perspective on mom-bodies in this post via momfilter.

Getting pregnant, growing your baby in your body, giving birth, breastfeeding and nourishing your newborn — these are life-changing events that redefine “normal” for us. Why can’t we accept that these are body-changing events as well? I admit, I don’t always love my stretch marks, mommy pot belly, and muffin top, but they are signs of the physical metamorphoses I experienced during pregnancies. My C-section scar is a badge of honor for what I needed to go through, mentally and physically, to birth my babies.

There is strength in motherhood, and our changed bodies should remind us of the amazing things we are capable of.

Like this:

Blankie, lovey, comfort object. In my family, it’s called a “bappy.” That was H’s pronunciation of “blankie” when he first became attached to his. At age 5 1/2, after a day of attitude and back-talking, he still cuddles with Tiger Bappy every night.

We have quite the bappy collection, all from Angel Dear with the cute animal heads and little nubbies on the corners. A blue lamb is the original bappy. We stocked up on two more of the same once I realized he could sleep anywhere as long as he had Bappy. Within a few months, we rounded out our menagerie with a Monkey Bappy and Tiger Bappy, emergency purchases made when we forgot to bring one with us. And so, the three lambs became known as Sheepie Bappy. They were more or less interchangeable, until H developed a preference for Monkey at around 2 years old. And for some unknown reason, he dumped Monkey for Tiger later on. I got him a second Tiger so that we’d have a spare, but he always knew which Tiger was The One, so Tiger Two was shelved along with the other cast-offs. In case you’ve lost count, we own six in all.

When D came along, I thought we had this bappy thing figured out. We didn’t buy him his own (bad mama!), we just used H’s old ones. We consciously kept them all in rotation so that he wouldn’t develop a preference for one over the other, and they got loved and laundered equally. What ended up happening? Just before he turned 2, he came to the realization that Tiger, Monkey and Sheepie were different. He now sleeps with all three…